


beds

by entremelement



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 03:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10631415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entremelement/pseuds/entremelement
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki's never been one to sleep in a huge bed, heck, he's Japanese. He can sleep on a futon and get away with a good night's sleep in an instant. Yuuri has always liked it that way--solitary, secure, with absolutely no room for another person.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mayerwien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/gifts).



I.

 

Yuuri Katsuki's never been one to sleep in a huge bed, heck, he's Japanese. He can sleep on a futon and get away with a good night's sleep in an instant. In place of an extravagant bed, a twin-sized one is tucked away in the corner of his room. Despite his absence, the beddings are religiously replaced, to keep the mites away. Yuri has always liked it that way--solitary, secure, with absolutely no room for another person.

It's ecstatic when he leans back and presses himself against the cold concrete, feeling the arch of his back automatically straighten upon a simple unfurling of the body, reminiscent of Minako-sensei's fatal warm-ups before he can even attempt to set foot on the floor for pirouettes. Besides, even if he did have a larger bed, he'd choose to lounge on the floor, grabbing a futon from the sliding cabinet at the foot of his bed, painstakingly shaking off the dust and patting it flat on what small space he has in the middle of the room. Supine, unmoving, he's always preferred doing things the hard way. After all, your dime-a-dozen skater doesn't deserve extravagance. This skater has to have some use, somehow, off the ice.

 

* * *

 

II.

 

Faint cries of seagulls greet Yuuri upon his arrival. Barcelona's winters are a thousand times more frigid than Hasetsu's, and Yuuri feels his fingers getting stiffer by the minute. With a numb hand, he fumbles and reaches for his jacket's zipper while struggling to meet Victor's quick strides. Victor's always been quick on his feet for adventures. A constant glint in his eye gave Yuuri the chills. How can he remain so mobile and relentlessly energetic when he, his sole companion, is a human manifestation of the banana slug--almost unmoving, draggy, yellow with constant anxiety. As Victor turns his head slightly in an attempt to meet Yuuri's gaze, in a quick motion, he bows down, eyes keeping track of his steps.

When Victor stops before a building, Yuuri doesn't even try to look up, resulting in a light collision between Yuuri's face and Victor's quilted jacket. The Russian man laughed without looking at the clumsy boy behind him who was stumbling to keep his specs in his hands. Victor puts an arm out, motioning to the door before the both of them. "You go on ahead, Yuuri," Victor adds. His hands are trembling, but finally getting a seemingly firm grip on his glasses. The moment Yuuri puts them on, he lifts his head up and sees that they've finally stopped at the hotel.

Yuuri thanks both his lucky stars for the warmth as he entered the room on the 7th floor, and Victor for having phoned the reception early on to request a space heater. He's always been too anxious to phone family members, more so hotel staff. It's one of the things he's always thanked Victor for. Yuuri spots the bed nearest to the window and decides to take it. It's always been home that way: even the twin-bed in Hasetsu sits next to the window, albeit heavily curtained. The numb hand that's been gripping his carry-on soon pushed it aside, letting it hit the corner of the room and roll back in recoil. His jacket went flying to one end of the room, gloves hastily pulled and scrunched up on the bedside table, face mask thrown on the bed. With outstretched arms, he throws himself on the bed face first, feeling his body being submerged deeper into the white softness. No freezing concrete to press against him today. It's a duvet. He's not too fond of duvets. But this will do. This is home for the next couple of days.

Slowly, his eyes close and the last things he hears are the mechanical sound of the doorknob twisting open, and the seagulls' calls drifting away.

 

* * *

 

III.

 

There are two mugs on the glass table today, both filled to the brim with scalding hot water from the electric kettle. Two unused Lipton teabags sit on the saucers. Christophe runs a finger on the mug's handle as he and Yuuri wait for Victor to finish his bath.

"In France," Christophe muses, finally lifting the finger from the handle and placing it on his chin, "drinking tea was for the elites. None of the lower or middle class old Frenchmen even had a drop of it." He lightly slaps Yuuri's elbow and laughs. "In reality, Louis XVI only used to drink it by the bucketful to treat his gout. Not so elegant, if I may." Yuuri cracks a tiny smile and laughs nervously, readying himself to be assaulted by his companion, remembering that Christophe pressed a firm hand against his behind at the Cup of China.

"Yuuri, you don't realize it now, but I guess you will," Christophe picks the teabag up and lifts it to the edge of the mug, letting the bottom sit on the rim before he spoke again. "You _deserve_ to have more than you could ever ask for." Of course, Yuuri stares back at Christophe, almost like a clueless animal, head cocked to one side, eyebrows drawn together. Guessing what others meant has never been his good suit.

"W-what?" he finally manages to spit out. Christophe lets out a sigh and a small laugh before dunking his teabag in the already tepid water. Yuuri draws the curtains back, and the desk lamp is turned on. Barcelona's moon is brighter and fuller than Hasetsu's--definitely more light than he's ever used to.

 

* * *

 

IV.

 

"Yuuuuuri," A hand drapes around Yuuri's abdomen. It's cold, now creeping inside his navy sweatshirt. "Yuuuri, I'm cold. That pint didn't do me any good. Warm me up. But more importantly.." Victor looks behind him, almost hitting his head on the side table, "why in heaven's name is this bed so small?!" Victor grumbles for a bit, kicking the sheets in the process.

After walking Mari-neesan and Minako-sensei to their hotel, and getting rid of the walking megaphone that is JJ, both of them had parted ways with the rest of the skaters in between Phichit's constant photo ops at the lobby with his ridiculous contraption. Amidst the laughter, Victor insisted that Yurio sleep in Otabek's room after seeing that he couldn't, not even for an instant, take his eyes off of the Kazakhstani, which resulted in Yurio kicking both of them inside the first elevator that opened. The boy bickering until the gap between the metal doors finally disappeared.

Now here they both are, unsurprisingly freezing to death with the duvet hanging on the edge of the bed. Yuuri turns to his side and sees Victor's face, crimson from all the alcohol intake, sporting a mighty pout. "Why are we even on this tiny bed? I'd prefer that we'd squeeze in a tub instead if we're going to be depriving each other of personal space, Yuuri." Victor thumbs the stray hair away from Yuuri's eyes and maintains his pout.

With Victor manifestly drunk, bits and pieces of mother Russia are soon to spout out. After a minute or so, out they go. " _Lyubov moyaaaaa_.."

If not for this drunken stupor, Yuuri would've let the hand slide further in.

 

* * *

 

V.

 

A cold breeze brushes against Yuuri's face, waking him, prompting him to reach out for his glasses on the left bedside table instinctively, before even cracking his own peepers open. With his vision hazy, he props himself up with an elbow and puts his age-old frames on. His second instinct kicks in.

"Victor?" Of course, after numerous blinks, no silver-haired man magically pops up before him. He glances at the bed to his left. Their beds are still separate, and his coach's remains untouched. The first thing that catches his eye is the warm, amber light coming from the bathroom. After all, the door is ajar, but he senses no movement.

All seems very still, and instead of calm, Yuuri feels distraught. He picks himself up and hastily tip-toes his way towards the bathroom. Placing a hand on the wooden doorjamb, he peers inside the lit bathroom and sees limbs hanging from the edge of the tub, feet whiter than the marble. Yuri leans forward and spots Victor, and Victor, like a true Russian, is half-naked, cradling a bottle of Absolut in one arm and the tub's faucet in the other.

Yuuri loses it.

"Victor! Wake up! Let's.. let's just push the beds together, okay? Come to bed, please." Yuuri hurriedly stomps his way to the bathroom, the icy marble floor stinging his feet with each step. In this light, Victor's cheeks look less of a crimson, and more of a flushed pink hue. Yuuri pauses to take in this view.

After a good five seconds or so, he places his hand on the Russian's wrist and strokes small circles with his thumb. All panic gone, there is a genuine hint of softness in Yuuri's coaxing. "Victor. Come on. Please don't make me carry you." He's met with a grunt and slight exasperation.

Never mind that he reeks doubly of alcohol, never mind that this Russian man is testing Yuuri's upper body strength, never mind that Victor has never been his textbook definition of secure. If this is what home is, then Yuuri would gladly drag a half-naked champion to bed each night.

 

* * *

 

VI.

 

It should come as no surprise that when Yuuri manages to lift a man larger than he is on top of the bed, he can also push two beds together effortlessly. First, he stands in the middle of the beds and grabs the corner of the duvet covers, throwing both on the beds in a single, simultaneous motion. Yuuri jumps on the bed to his right and pulls the cord for the lamp before jumping back into his previous position. Carefully, he puts his hands on both sides of the bedside table and pulls on it until he successfully drags it next to the luggage, then runs back to tuck the duvet on Victor's bed neatly.

He's resigned himself to the fact that his side of the bed will always be a complete mess as long as Victor is there, drunken mess or otherwise, waiting for him.

Yuuri, with the strength needed to push a stationary zamboni about a feet or so, crouches, places his hands on the edge of Victor's bed, and pushes both beds together. He climbs in next to Victor, who's sprawled face-first on Yuuri's bed, arms and legs spread out. Yuuri breathes out a heavy sigh and eventually chuckles, softly scooping Victor's smushed face, placing his cheek on the pillow.

"Ah, Victor, the things you make me do," Yuuri sighs and plants a kiss on the sleeping Victor's forehead, before finally curling up against him.

 

* * *

 

VII.

 

Yuuri Katsuki's never been one to sleep in a huge bed, heck, he's Japanese. He can sleep on a futon and get away with a good night's sleep in an instant. Yuuri has always liked it that way--solitary, secure, with absolutely no room for another person.

Except, when Victor casually danced into his life, solo burrito futons turned into who can squeeze the most limbs in a small bed. Tranquil supine meditation sessions on the floor have turned into Victor knocking thrice before barging in, a notepad in one hand, and a stereo radio in the other. Victor has his own way of maintaining that glint in his eye, that thirst for adventure in seemingly stagnant places. Yuuri now knows why it frightened him so much--to find adventure in him is to force movement in an otherwise unmoving stronghold.

Yuuri's bed can no longer fit him; these days it feels inadequate. It's no longer exhilarating when he presses against the cold concrete; nowadays, it feels like the concrete pushes back. When his back straightens against the wall, he is reminded of how loneliness is quite different from being alone. It suffocates him so much that he would always coyly tiptoe out of his room, walk to the end of the hall, open the sliding door to settle into the arms of a man in green robes, snoozing happily on a larger yet flatter bed. It's not something he thinks that he could have gotten used to in a span of months, but he surprises himself yet again.

Each time he does this, Victor doesn't even open his eyes; he wraps his arms around Yuuri and buries his nose against his collarbone. It's always " _lyubov' moya, pridl ka mne_ ," repeatedly, in whispers, and kisses on the arch of Yuuri's ear until it turns beet red, before finally drifting off to sleep. In Victor’s arms, Yuuri catches a whiff of his breath, still the leftover Suntory. In this private moment, he’s privileged enough to hear Victor speak anything Russian other than his daily exclamations of delight in the extra-large katsudon bowls. Yuuri detests being treated like royalty, but this is, and will always be, from now on, his new solitude.

After all, your dime-a-dozen skater doesn't deserve extravagance, but he sure gets it, and so much more.

**Author's Note:**

> QUICK NOTES:
> 
> This is for the lovely [mayerwien](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/gifts), and is pretty much long overdue (we talked about gifting each other last Christmas.. well.. things happened) but it is both a pleasure and a great wave of relief for me to be able to chuck out something like this from my rusty brain every once in a while. We all know how curious you were when you saw the two beds pushed together so I tried to make sense of it. Hope you enjoy it.
> 
> TRANSLATION NOTES:
> 
> • LYUBOV MOYA (Russian: Любовь моя) is "my love," which is used in two instances in this fic so it should come as no surprise that it is used in a sentence, like--  
> • PRIDL KA MNE (Russian: приди ко мне) which is "come to me." It's much more endearing than idi syuda which is the Russian equivalent of the crass "YOU, COME HERE!" or, in Japanese, "TEME!" (Roughly, I guess, haha!)


End file.
